Dr. Ames sat down across from the two Agents dressed in casual clothes. She let the file in her hands slap down on the table, clicking the reading light on. A cursory flip through the pages for effect, and she looked up. "Okay. Sam, Jim. You guys are both senior agents. What the hell happened?"

Sam Denton and Jim McDowell glanced at each other. Sam shrugged sheepishly, "Look, we didn't do it on purpose. There was an official distress call. This is how it went down…"

T-Minus Eight Minutes from the incident in question

Director Desai furiously typed in access codes to his smartphone. Every press of his thumb got faster and more frantic as the creatures outside the door pounded on it. “Come on, come on, send send send…”

A hot sweat popped out on his forehead, mashing the send button over and over. A full D-25-E would get him out of here. He didn't know what else to do, and now he'd gotten cornered in here of all places.

"By all that is good and holy SEND!" He yelled at the screen, the tiny spinning circle turning into a checkmark.

A tone emitted from the phone’s speakers. On the screen flashed the words “Agents Scrambled. Remain in your location.” Director Desai looked at the flimsy door. The door shook furiously on its hinges. The little monsters outside were going to break through eventually. “Come out, we want to plaaaay.”

Across town, the little electronic relay bounced around a Foundation black circle a few times, before happily bouncing out to the phones of the two closest agents.

Agents Denton and McDowell sat around a card table, taking turns idly flicking playing cards into a bucket. Sam looked up at the ceiling, and let out a sigh, “Are you fucking kidding me. First the bus, then Las Chupacabras, and now nothing? I’m so boooooored.”

Jim shrugged. "Look, we were due for some downtime. You decided we didn't need it, asshat. And so now we're here babysitting a couple of brass during the summit." Jim flicked the Ace of Spades into the bucket, smirking. “Ace in the hole!” He grinned, and turned to Denton. “Beat that, Sam.”

Sam let out an agonized groan. "Fuck. What's this summit about anyway?" He bent the two of clubs between his fingers a bit, and flicked it outwards. It skittered across the floor and came to rest among a pile of similar cards.

Jim lifted his left hand to his temple, "Use your brain, Sam. After the fiasco down in Oaxaca, Las Chupacabras and Kalikos requested a formal meeting. What else could it have been?"

Sam shook his head, and gestured at Jim. "Your shot, buddy. I dunno, I had hoped it would just blow over."

Jim looked over at Sam with an eyebrow raised, "Blow over? Sam, they stole her pinata. That's like…a lot bigger deal than I made clear apparently." He bent the King of Diamonds, and flicked it at the bucket. It landed flat on the edge of the bucket, without tipping in. "Well. Fuck. First time in four packs that's happened."

Sam looked up at the ceiling and groaned, “Come on, something good show up!” As if on cue, his phone buzzed. He picked it up more surprised than concerned and glanced at the screen. His eyes flicked over the words, an address and a status code. It was on the official channel, but not related to their current assignment. He didn't even recognize the code.

“Hey, Jim, what’s a D-25-E?” Sam said, flicking over to one of the Foundation internal social media applications. DuMourne's feed scrolled across his phone, a picture of him and Director Diaghilev standing next to someone in robes, shaking hands. "Fucking show off…"

“Site Director in distress, immediate expedited dispatch. Why?” Jim said, flicking the Queen of Diamonds to try and knock her husband into the bucket.

Sam scrambled to his feet, gathering up his belt, “Shit, fuck, Jim, D-25-E, closeby! It's on us!” He reached over, and pressed the lock-down switches on the equipment around them, hard-point shielding sliding over the various terminals and servers. The tiny room they'd been stationed in rapidly transformed back into a janitorial closet.

The air conditioning clicked off, and the room went silent for a half-second.

Agent Denton blinked for a moment, then scrambled to his feet, grabbing his weapon belt. "God dammit, let's fucking go."

The two agents burst out of the tiny room, and skittered across the lobby of the Soap from Corpses Products satellite office they'd been using as a safehouse. Sam kicked the door bar open and kept running out the side door of the building, Jim a half-step behind him. The parking lot was completely empty, all of the brass took the heavily armored and armed vehicles to the summit.

Jim slapped his palm against his face. "God fucking dammit, what are we gonna do now?" In the distance, a melody started to play from across the crowded block.

Sam looked around, clicking the weapon belt around his waist. His options were pretty limited. There were a couple of bikes chained up in the bike rack, and a SegWay chained to the lobby desk. "Bike, or SegWay, Jim?"

Jim stopped for a moment flabbergasted. "Sam, are you actually suffering from radiation poisoning or something? It's half a mile away!" The melody grew closer, as the two agents argued.

Sam held up his hands, turning to Jim, "Well, what the hell are we gonna do, it's all we've got man. It's that, or sprint full out across city ground!"

The melody finally came into clear auditory range. The jolly rendition of The Entertainer might as well have been a godsend, as a Mr. Softee truck rounded the corner, and came to a stop right in front of the parking lot. A fresh faced young man leaned out, and smiled at the two agents. "Hey guys, want some ice cream?"

The ice cream truck screamed down the highway at its top speed, McDowell dictating directions to Denton. “Fucking left, not right! Go around!” Denton dodged around a parked car, and nearly slammed into a truck as he swerved to get around traffic.

“I swear to fuck, Sam, there are like five hundred kids on every block, JONESING HARD FOR SOME MR SOFTEE. Would you just prep the fucking guns!” Denton's voice was hard-edged, and tense. The call had put them both on edge. Whatever was trapping the director had to have been bad to send out an expedited request.

“I’m just fucking saying man,” McDowell said, slamming a magazine of experimental explosive rounds into the two service pistols in front of him on the cooler, “He could be getting tortured, why else would he send out such an obvious distress signal?” He slipped a small blue cartridge into the slot just above the heel of his right combat boot. A quick tap of the buttons on his wristwatch confirmed the status of the various bits of gear around his body. "Okay, the map is saying it's like…a block and a half ahead, so if we— GODDAMMIT SAM, RED FUCKING LIGHT!"

A semi-truck screamed through the intersection, straight towards the ice cream truck. Denton cranked the wheel to the left, the ice-cream truck let out a tortured groan as the music cheerfully continued out of the loud speaker, distorted by doppler effect. "OH FUCKING HELL, BY ALL THAT IS HOLY HOLD ON TO SOMETHING!" Sam screamed, as they clipped the back edge of the trailer, knocking the ice cream truck into the oncoming lane.

McDowell braced against the cooler in the back of the truck. The doors flew open, and ice cream bars and candy flew out the back of the truck. "Ahhhhh!" he added, helpfully, as he slapped his right hand down on the metal surface of the cooler, a flick of his wrist extending the magnetic anchor concealed under his right sleeve. It hummed to life and kept the agent from becoming roadkill. The truck righted itself, several cars honking and swerving around them.

Denton slammed on the brakes, as they approached the address, coming from 80 to 20 as fast as the tortured little truck would let them. "Bail, Jim! Let's go!" He jumped out the driver's side door, and hit the ground at a run.

In the back of the truck, McDowell disengaged the magnetic anchor, and said a tiny prayer to whatever god was listening. He held his feet up and jumped up as best he could with just his back muscles as he slid out the back of the truck. He landed lightly on his feet, and continued into a jog, "Holy shit I didn't think that would work!"

The ice cream truck slammed into a passenger van, as the two agents sprinted to the front door. Jim held up a fist, then took a step back, slamming his heel into the ground. He held out the other weapon to Sam, without looking back. Sam took the pistol, and turned to cover their backs.

The heel of Jim's boot glowed with trace circuitry as a quiet thunk emanated from it. He kicked at the front door with a stomp, the bootheel releasing a shockwave that threw the door into the small home.

Jim immediately rolled backwards to clear Sam's line of sight, who ducked in through the door.
Sam leveled his weapon towards the glowing indicator on the small wrist-mounted GPS he wore. He kept the small device visible in his sight picture, as he scanned the room.

“FREEZE, OR I’LL BLOW YOUR FUCKING HE—” Sam bellowed.

Across the room three small girls screamed, and ran out of the house, with varying cries of ‘Mommy!’ The dust of the nearly-vaporized door settled leaving Sam blinking in confusion. "I'm gonna go ahead and guess it's clear."

McDowell entered, blinked in surprise and lowered his weapon. He walked over to the door the little girls had been pounding on, and knocked quietly. “Uhh…Director Desai?”

From the other side of the door, a quiet voice squeaked out, “Erm…yes?”

"No don't come in, I'll be right ou—" Denton turned the knob, and opened the door, revealing the double-PhD holding Site Director with his pants around his ankles, on the toilet. He pulled his shirt down to cover himself, and turned beet red. "Erm. Hello, Agent."

Denton's eyebrows went up in a mix of shock and amusement. He quietly closed the door, and turned to face Jim, barely holding in laughter. "Another critical Foundation mission complete, Jim."

Sam shrugged, his fingertips resting on the table between them, "He's been staying with family for days, and apparently those little girls had him on the verge of a mental breakdown. We uhh…replaced the door for them, if that's anything."

Dr. Ames pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing heavily, “First, he has to give a seminar on bottle dicks, and now ‘how not to misappropriate Foundation resources when scared dropping a deuce.’ Poor Gears. Thank you agents.”